Substitution
by secretsmiling
Summary: The story we all know seen through alternative view points and impressions of those who knew Christine Daae, telling the story without her - beginning with her conservatoire singing teacher. Inspired by Leroux and Christine's lack of independent voice in the ALW musical.


"Meanwhile, the father died; and, suddenly, she seemed to have lost, with him, her voice, her soul and her genius. She retained just, but only just, enough of this to enter the Conservatoire, where she did not distinguish herself at all, attending the classes without enthusiasm and taking a prize only to please old Mamma Valerius, with whom she continued to live." - Gaston Leroux's _Phantom of the Opera_

* * *

For the third time in as many minutes, Monsieur Falguière stopped his pupil in the middle of a line of song. The accompanist, who had been relieved to pass the previous phrase (which had been corrected and re-corrected so many time he was beginning to lose his patience with the whole thing), sighed loudly. This was the last student of the day and the day had already been too long. It was a mark of his frustration that the teacher even forgot to give the pianist his usual stern look in response.

"No, no, no! Mademoiselle Daaé, your character is dying of love and I am yet to see any indication of affection whatever. Moreover, your 'o' sounds are still not adequate. We must place our lips forward to create the correct shape, must we not? Like so,"

The teacher demonstrated and the pianist, who would usually have been amused by the sight of the man pouting, felt slightly appeased to see tears welling up her eyes.

As soon as was politely possible, the girl looked down at her hands again, in shame and frustration. "I apologise, maestro. I... shall try harder to remember in future,"

Falguière sighed. He was always given the same response – trapped in an endless tomorrow that never appeared. In his darker moments, when angered by his wife's habit of tapping her fingers on the dinner table, he would wonder whether any of his pupils had ever learnt anything from him. Would any of them ever make anything of themselves, other than becoming mediocre teachers or appealing little wives with the gentile parlour trick of 'singing a little'?

It had been months, years, and Christine Daaé had not improved as expected. At her audition, the panel had noted her developed range (though, clearly, the tone needed to be evened out), an exquisite light quality that hinted at great possibilities and her valiant efforts at breath control (though her technique was not good enough for the runs they had desired of her in prepared pieces). It was obvious to all who had heard her that the performance was soulless – her first aria, that operatic standard of a desperate woman crying to God to save her from a dreadful fate, had sounded much like her second, a young ingénue rejoicing at sighting her lover – but this was brushed away as performer's nerves.

The Head Professor of Strings, cello virtuoso Moreau, had argued in favour of her. After all, wasn't it known that her father, Charles, had been a famous violinist, well regarded in the highest musical circles? Even Perrin, a pianist of great skill who was notoriously steel-like in emotions, had to admit to having openly wept at one of Daaé's lullabies from his own country. Surely, it could not be possible for a girl to hold the dream of being an opera singer and have no ability to show sentiment – it was in her very blood! The panel had been swayed to accept her, hoping that they would be correct.

Sébastien Falguière had nearly cried when he had heard he was to teach the girl. Before he had been forced to retire from the stage, his name had been known primarily for originating the title role of 'Frédéric', in which he had been cheered after all five of his arias every night of its extended run. His success had stemmed from his superb aptitude for conveying anger and distress, coupled with a strong upper register. He would have, he was sure, continued to have a thriving career, had his wife not begged him to find a more secure income. Their children were often ill and, as he would not take roles that he deemed beneath him (how dare they ask him to consider a chorus role! Had they not seen his Frédéric?), she was often most distressed and in poor spirits.

He tried never to think about Christine unless it was absolutely required. When she had arrived, she had informed him that she had been given what in his mind was very minimal prior training, mostly learning folk melodies by ear and by repetition, as well as learning the fundamentals of notated music. As such, it had been an uphill struggle to teach her the improve her singing technique at one fell swoop. It had been nearly six months before he had been able to conduct what he considered a normal lesson.

Years later, despite his best efforts, she remained staunchly unfinished, even though her final recital was approaching with terrifying speed. Her voice had mellowed and was pleasant but it still reminded him unflinchingly of an automaton or, in particularly bad moments, a cadaver. Before God, he saw no way she would be able to pass her exam and graduate – and the prospect of yet more years trying to coax out some kind of emotional response in her singing scared and angered him so much that he pushed it out of his mind as soon as it arose.

As Christine leaned towards the music stand to notate her score, the book lost its balance and fell to the floor with a loud thump. Blushing and apologising under her breath, she scrambled to pick it up and put it into her bag with the others. Unseen by her, the two men shared a disbelieving look.

This was her other fault. It appeared that the lady was lacking in gracefulness. A young soprano with a perfect instrument might be forgiven a little clumsiness. However, in his mind's eye, he could not visualise her being able to hold the stage in a part suited to her voice; princesses and maidens in the Opera did not trip on or accidentally break important props ... or drop things. Mademoiselle Daaé, with her head in the clouds, the persistent feeling of melancholy that followed her and her painful embarrassment at being singled out, would, in his opinion, be very fortunate indeed to find a position – even in the chorus!

Falguière shook his head. It was getting dark, after all, and his wife would not appreciate him being late for their dinner. Mouthing his thanks at the other man, he looked meaningfully in the direction of the door. Pleased his torment for the day was finally over, the pianist picked up his scores, already collected together and even alphabetised, and left the room, heading for the nearest public house.

As the teacher turned to face his pupil once more, he caught a glimpse of her hurriedly dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief, before speedily hiding it. Putting on her coat and customary red scarf (the object had been an unlikely source of intrigue, as the girl was so private – some had wondered if it was simply a habit to wear it constantly; others had somewhat less kindly wondered whether this was her replacement for friendship), the girl had made for the door, nearly whispering "thank you for your time, maestro" and disappearing out of sight.

Suddenly, he couldn't help but think: "Christine Daaé – what a fine church mouse she would make; all petite and frightened of the world!" For his first time in their association, he had the sudden feeling that, if he had known her socially and not as simply a musical frustration, he would have found her pleasant.

~x~

Monsieur Falguière had thought of a way to extricate himself from his Daaé predicament. He had suddenly struck upon the idea that the way to ensure her success in her final recital was for her to win a prize in advance. He'd been in the middle of his bath when he had realised that it would smokescreen the panel for the final recital – they would see what they would expect to see; a wonderfully talented performer, with few obvious flaws.

His wife had not been impressed. She had been in a foul mood, as he had – through no fault of his own – been late and their food, which she had been labouring on for hours, had been spoilt. There was no living with her when she was like this, he thought angrily. He struggled to keep bread on the table and, when he came home exhausted and frustrated, she would not oblige him by acting civilly.

"How on God's green earth will that help you?" She had positively laughed in his face at the thought of it. "You cannot simply will her to win. You have no way of swaying the panel and you have said yourself she is most unlikely to improve adequately in time,"

However, this was his masterstroke of genius. She would perform a piece in her native Swedish, a sad wistful song (he was sure she must know of one), and then not one person present would be able to fault her. Her natural melancholy would add to, not hinder, her chances. The words being untranslated, the audience would be able to interpolate her constant grief in something with which they could relate – loneliness, loss of a loved one, longing for a better future. In short, the scheme was perfect and Christine Daaé, he hoped, would be his problem no longer.

~x~

"B-but, Maestro," Christine had quietly protested. "I can hardly dare to think a humble folk melody, unaccompanied and unknown to the listeners, will be of sufficient standard to obtain the prize. Must I enter?"

She was looking down at her hands once more, wringing them anxiously, as if trying to dispel a nervous tension. It was true she had not had much success in her previous attempts. Still, the idea that the mere thought of performing to a receptive crowd of professors would make her so anxious worried him greatly. How could she hope to proceed in such a manner? Yet again, Falguière found himself irritated by the girl. After all the trouble he was taking for her, why didn't she even appear to be trying? Couldn't she understand that he was aiding her?

"Mademoiselle Daaé, you are young and vastly inexperienced," he began, clenching his hands into fists and starting out of the window, wishing he could storm out and never return to this ungrateful baggage. "You quite forget yourself in contradicting me. Sometimes I am inclined to wonder whether you truly wish to be a singer,"

The girl started at the accusations and, for a horrible moment, he thought she might cry again. Then, she spoke.

"You must believe me that I am sorry you do not think me sufficiently motivated. However, it is still my wish to perform at the Opera,"

Ah, the meek yet quietly fervent way in which she put forward her case, like a sinner's entreaty for the Holy Mother's intercession, burned him inwardly! How was it she could seem so indifferent and, under this facade, at once like his daughter – all strong conviction and terrible innocence? Just as his dreams had been snatched from his grasp, he had the awful impression that hers would follow a similar path.

Suddenly, his anger came rushing back with untold power. He had worked so hard – such long hours learning his repertoire, perfecting languages, honing his technique; days and weeks and months parroting exercises and solfège, audition after audition until his gifts were finally recognised. To think that this girl could have had a future free of such strife, if only she had tried a little and let herself be led to greatness! Never before had he felt such an injustice so heavy upon him. It was too much to bear.

"Then, you must mould yourself to your teacher's wishes, child! This lesson is at an end. Good day,"

He swept out of the room so quickly that poor Christine, feeling awfully distressed at the whole encounter, didn't see him leave.


End file.
